It comes as no surprise when the golden mare declines his offer of a home. It had hardly been genuine after all—mostly grounded on nothing more than mischief and play—and had she given any other answer, he probably would have stammered (not that he would mind living with this beautiful woman, but to invite her there himself? The kind of implied responsibility that comes with that is something he is uncomfortable with). As is it, she refuses him graciously, to which he responds with a frisky, crooked smile.

However, the buoyant air between them quickly becomes weighted with memories—images of the battles, the diseases, the loss. Turns out that Rexanna had been tortured by the same excruciating headache that he had. The stallion empathizes with her pain, but he doesn’t pity her for it; each one of them had been pricked by the Rift’s dangerous thorns in one way or another, and he sees no point in wallowing or begging for pity from someone who is also bleeding. Fortunately, Rexanna doesn’t lower herself to such a thing. Offering her a more sincere grin, his expression softens for the briefest of moments, “I’m sorry for your suffering, darling.”

And then the moment is gone, almost as quickly as it had come. Shaded green eyes watch as the mare’s demeanor shifts ever so slightly, his grin deepening into a smirk when she breaches the distance he had left between them, the warmth of their muzzles brushing against one another. It is not quite the intimate welcome his testosterone-hazed mind had been hoping for, but he’s not one to complain.

“I think I could,” he answers her question smoothly, too distracted with fantasies of naughty and plundering seductresses to care much for reality. As far as he is concerned, she seems quite suited to the task (by what he knows of her, anyway). Puffing out his chest proudly at her compliment, he shifts his large body closer. He thrives on the mare’s praise, his mind grasping for approval he isn’t even aware of—to fill a hole that had been chiseled at every day in his youth, by the hands of an iron-fisted and dastardly father.

He is a warrior (who is he trying to prove?).

With his heart thrumming through the heat that radiates between them, the Warlander casts Rexanna a confident smile. “Why thank you, sweetheart; I do my best,” a low chuckle rumbles forth, and he arches his thick neck to lower his head closer to her level, “and if you’re looking to prove yourself…I daresay you are an enchanting woman. You wouldn’t have to try very hard.” His flirtation is hardly concealed. To him, she is already a treasure, a dream; even with her face colored and scarred, her beauty cannot be hidden. Between subliminal vulnerability and desperate companionship, he wants her in the most primal and intimate of ways.


notes; OMG I suck ._.
“Speech.”

     RUN AWAY WITH ME
lost souls and reverie; running wild and running free.